


White Dirt

by k_roth



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Drug Dealing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_roth/pseuds/k_roth





	White Dirt

It became a daily routine for Cyrus, getting through the day with empty thoughts, sluggish movements and cloudy visions. People have tried to help him ─ friends, family, doctors, even teachers ─ but he’s in too deep. Gone too far. He would tell himself, ‘just one more’ but would end up taking in dozens. They warned him before and he ignored it all. Now he's got no one to tell to “put a sock in it”. He’s on his own, drowning in deafening silence.

─────

A train whistle sounded as it passed a crossing and a lean male figure jumped out of one of the carts. He tucked themselves into a roll then stood up to dust off their clothes, shouldering their backpack properly.

He walked into the borders of the city, the sky turning an increasingly dark shade of blue. A layer of fog was casted over the city, obscuring the usual bright light of the moon and the stars.

Crossing the street, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he immediately knew what was coming next.

“$210,” a deep and heavy voice grunted somewhere to his left. Cyrus turned, blinking a few times to get his vision to focus through the haze of the grey, post-rain fog. In it stood the outline of a large, rugged man a few meters away, shadowed by the brick walls of the building surrounding him. Between them lay littered trash, old discarded clothes and the stained gravel that Cyrus refused to cross over.

Time dragged on as he kept quiet, mulling over the next three words he planned to say. A forced, deep breath; “I’m not buying.”

The words felt foreign, unused. He can’t remember a time when he said anything close to it.

Silence fell. Then a hoarse, chilling cough of laughter sounded through the air. “Sure you are,” the man, who Cyrus knew to be white-skinned, said, finding Cyrus’ reply comical. The buff man knew how this would turn out. It always starts and ends the same way. Every single time.

Cyrus kept his mouth shut, standing still and grounded. He didn’t move in fear of what he might do. Didn’t open his mouth in fear of what he might say.

The man seemed to be able to read his mind for he could sense a smirk hitching up onto the man’s face. “Double for $360,” the man offered after a moment.

“I don’t have the money,” he lied.

“Don’t fuck around with me,” the man suddenly snarled, taking steps forward. Despite the crispy autumn air, he was wearing a sleeveless leather jacket with a dirty white wife beater underneath, his jeans hanging low on his hips and a pair of muddy boots on his feet. Toxic inked designs littered his arms and his face was heavily pierced. A bag was shouldered onto his back, definitely loaded with the deceiving goods he sold every day. “I know you’re loaded. Your mommy and daddy are big shots around the city, makin’ millions a day.”

“I said I don’t want your shit, Jones,” Cyrus spat in return through gritted teeth, feeling bold. “Maybe next time.”

Immediately, he felt himself being lifted up into the air, slammed into the brick wall. He felt something warm trickle down his head and neck, and cursed the other man to the darkest and damnest pits of hell.

The man, Jones, sneered, baring yellow and some silver teeth. He had a fistful of flannel and a hard grip on flesh. A cool blade was pressed under Cyrus’ chin, Jones’ face mere centimeters away. “You listen here, punk,” Jones said lowly. “You either take it or leave it and never come 'round here again. You hear me?"

When Cyrus didn't respond after a moment's pause, he felt himself get yanked forward only to be slammed back into the hard wall. "I said," Jones growled. "Do you hear me?"

His hands felt clammy and he could feel his mouth go dry, his tongue like sandpaper. He felt the blade start to dig deeper into his neck every second as Jones grew impatient for his answer. A small part of him wanted to simply leave and to never return ─ but who was he kidding, the desire was too great. The sensation of was too much. He wanted it so bad. A shattered, broken sigh left his lips. Jones took it as it was; he had caved.

Cyrus was thrown onto the damp ground, landing hard on his ankle only to fall face first. No doubt his ankle was twisted again, he thought as it throbbed. He felt relieved that there was no longer a danger threatening to cut open his throat ─ no matter how short a time it was ─ and that he didn’t have to look down at Jones’ hideously scarred face.

But he spoke too soon. Right away, dirt was kicked at him, earning him a bitter mouthful of it. “Pay up,” Jones ordered roughly, standing three feet away with his arms crossed over his chest, the ziploc bag in his hand.

Cyrus stood up, spitting out the dirt, blood somewhere in the mix. He quickly counted the money, before it got yanked out of his fingers seconds after he was finished. The bag was tossed at his feet and he picked up, the white powder looking alluring as ever. Jones turned around, heading in the opposite direction disappearing back into the woods. The fog shielded him after just a few meters, but his voice rang clear.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”


End file.
